


odd man out

by poalimal



Series: WIP Amnesty [2]
Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: Cooking, Crack, Developing Relationship, F/F, Gen, Jossed, M/M, Racism, old fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-23
Updated: 2018-07-23
Packaged: 2019-06-14 23:38:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15400119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poalimal/pseuds/poalimal
Summary: 'What is this, Barefoot Contessa?' says Connor.





	odd man out

 

Three days after Lila's body is found, before Professor Keating takes the case: they're working late. Frank is smoking outside - they can hear Bonnie on the house phone, saying something quiet, probably scathing. Asher orders some hellishly inedible fusion food: grape and mint pad thai samosas, honey-radish paneer, seaweed lassi.

What rich people must eat when they hate themselves, Wes figures.

Or maybe not. Michaela lets out the screw-face, then reaches into the sandwich bag of carrot sticks Laurel tried to pass around earlier. 

'Well, you're welcome,' mumbles Laurel, not moving the bag from her lap.

Michaela scoffs. 'These carrots are _room temperature_ , Lauren. You should be thanking me for eating them.' And then she puts her hand in the bag and gropes around for some more carrots. Wes rolls his eyes.

'Dear God,' says Connor, loud-but-not-loud-enough-to-get-glared-at-by-Bonnie, 'are you actually still eating at Le Min, Asher? Didn't you hear about the rats?'

Asher's face and fork, as one, drop to the floor. 'What rats.'

Connor's face lights up with vicious glee. That's Wes's cue -- he's trying to be good about the greasy food this week -- everytime he calls his grandma on FaceTime, she sighs over how skinny he looks, and how he was so nice and fat! as a child.

Ah, whatever. Wes is, for once, prepared.

...Well, kind of. He forgot his class notes on his bed...but! He _did_ remember to pack a small snack.

All he needs is a little pepper...and heating in the microwave is a waste of time, might as well toss everything on the floor if he wanted a more efficient way of drying his rice out...shame about these _pans_ , they've clearly been used only the once. Might as well use them as God and China intended. Oops. Wes flips the wok over just to be sure. Bangladesh! Just as God and Bangladesh intended.

Which just went to show you -- you never really knew what you thought you knew.

A nice garnish would be nice, maybe julienned cucumbers? And carrots, he thinks to himself, laughing a little -- Laurel might appreciate that one. The only thing he needs is a little vinegar...hmm, none in the fridge, maybe there'll be some in the--

'What is this, Barefoot Contessa?' says Connor. Wes manages not to jump a foot in the air, but only just. 'You're using _Annalise Keating's kitchen without permission_. And you're... _humming_.'

Wes's backpack chooses that moment to slide off the counter, front pockets all open.

Connor stares at the floor for one second before his face nearly turns in on itself from the disdain. 'Is that _pot_?' he hisses. He looks wildly around the kitchen, then hauls Wes forward like he's about to punch him. He's got very big eyes. 'Are you carrying pot around on the college campus with the most random and race-related drug spot checks in America? Are you a fucking moron?' He checks himself, pushes Wes back in disgust. 'Wait, look at who I'm talking to - of course you're a fucking moron.'

'It's, er, basil,' Wes tries. Connor continues looking like he's going to be asshole about an extremely occasional habit. Not like Wes's exactly got time to be blazing it up every other weekend anymore, now, does he. 'I'm holding it for a friend?'

'Really?' Connor whisper-laughs. Where incredulity had tightened his face, scorn pulls it out and sharpens it. Wes turns back to the stove to avoid the insult he knows is coming. 'What, you have friends?'

Wes turns the two front stovetops off. 'Well,' he says, 'I don't make a habit of making every person I encounter hate me, at least.'

'Don't be so sure,' Connor mutters.

Wes turns back around. 'Try this.'

Connor looks startled to find a steaming metal spoon held at his lips.

'Careful,' says Wes. He grins a little, because Connor is making this stupid face and it's...it's funny to look at. Funny or cute or something. 'It's hot. Blow.'

Connor is staring at him - his eyes narrow and all at once it looks like he's got Wes read. Wes feels appropriately embarrassed. There's no rhyme or reason to it: all of them make him feel that way, even Laurel sometimes. Even if all he tries to do is be nice.

'Never mind, then,' he mumbles, and he raises the spoon to his own lips.

Connor makes a quick jerking motion with his head. Wes takes a startled half-step back. Three drops of sauce fall: two on the floor, one on Wes's pants. Connor is looking at the floor like he's about to have another poison-barbed panic attack.

Wes tries the sauce himself. Needs a little more pepper, but what can you do. That done, he puts the spoon back in his bowl, tears a paper towel and bends down to wipe up the drops quickly.

'You're like a torpedo,' says Connor, above him.

Wes either didn't hear him clearly, or he doesn't understand. When he looks up, Connor is watching him. 'Sorry?'

'You're like a torpedo,' Connor repeats. He waves a hand. 'You just...stumble everywhere and make a mess of everything.'

Wes stands. Connor's eyes follow him up.

'That's kind of a confusing analogy,' Wes says. He stood up a little too close, but he doesn't take the appropriate step back. 'Torpedoes don't stumble. They don't have legs.'

'Yea,' says Connor, staring at his lips, 'yea, I know.'  
  
'Do I have something on my mouth?' Wes wonders, raising up a hand to his face. Somehow his body gets confused and it places his hand on Connor's face instead. Very understandable mistake.

'You might soon,' says Connor. Wes laughs a little, awkwardly out of breath.

'Well,' says Professor Keating, 'isn't this...cozy.'

Connor's face smoothes over remarkably quickly. He pivots toward Annalise, adopts the sincerest I'm Just As Disappointed In Wait List As You Are expression. If Wes weren't about to be tossed out onto the cold streets on his ear, he'd probably find this sea change more amusing than he does currently.

'I tried to stop him, Professor,' Connor sinceres, 'but he just seemed determined to go along with this horrific invasion of privacy--'

Professor Keating looks at Connor. Connor falls silent. Annalise looks at Wes, at the pan and wok filled with food. She doesn't change her expression when she looks at him again: _Explain_.

'I was just--making--well, ok, I brought some food, and I thought, everyone's hungry, La Men or whatever looked like it might give everyone actual food poisoning, so I went to heat up my food, but then I thought, might as well make some more, but I wasn't really thinking and I'll,' he ducks his head, face burning, 'I'll just go now.' Connor's looking at him like he's caught a line up to the sky, and is staring down at him from the clouds.

Great job, Wes, Wes thinks, shaking his head at himself. First barging in on her affair, then in on her kitchen. Maybe he really is a torpedo.

Annalise is silent for a moment more. Then she speaks: 'Saving us from compromised cuisine. That means you pay attention to the people around you. That's good. You need to vacate my kitchen immediately - but that's very good.' Wes's head shoots up. Connor's face flashquicks from incredulity to anger to polite disinterest. Professor Keating cuts her eyes at Connor. 'And Mr Walsh. If you're going to ask Mr Gibbons out, kindly do so directly and spare us all the indignity of watching your emotionally constipated flirting.'

Connor clenches his jaw. 'Right,' he mutters.

 

**Author's Note:**

> lol I could _not_ take this one seriously. Even as crack! S1 Annalise would legitimately find a way to give Wes extra-credit for breaking into her kitchen tho lmao


End file.
